


Water Goblets

by Kerowyn6



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire, Angst with a Happy Ending, Everyone Is Nicer Than In Canon, F/M, Francis-as-Jaime-Lannister Is Actually Not as Much of a Dick as Actual Francis, Implied/Referenced Incest, Kind Of OT3-y If You Have Your Slash Goggles On, Kingslayer Francis, Lots of Passive Aggressive Comments, Marriage of Convenience, Music, Philippa Is a Badass, Suicidal Thoughts, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 18:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11042262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerowyn6/pseuds/Kerowyn6
Summary: It's a simple enough quest. Accompany Ser Francis the Kingslayer back to King's Landing. Try to keep Ser Jerott Blyth from killing him. Accidentally get married to a man who is mainly a bunch of suicidal tendencies held together with sarcasm and headaches.





	Water Goblets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Languish_Locked_in_L](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Languish_Locked_in_L/gifts).



> Written for ScotSwap for Languish-locked-in-L's amazing prompt: "Song of Ice and Fire and Lymond cross over, where Francis is the Kingslayer??? Is this how cross overs work? WHY HAVE I NOT THOUGHT OF THIS BEFORE??? "
> 
> I kind of...condensed all the marriage drama as it is in LC because I was at 3500 words and wasn't prepared to deal with that. Have some happy fluff.  
> Basically, everyone gets along a hell of a lot better than in canon.

Ser Jerott was a tall man, dark, with a ready sword arm and sharp black eyes that never shirked from a glare. He contrasted to a nearly comic extent with the prisoner chained to the dungeon wall.  
Philippa sniffed. The dank room smelled of sour wine and piss. The Crawfords shat gold, they said; and if that were true the Erskine dungeon held a veritable fortune. “Francis Crawford,” she said aloud. 

“Certainly,” the bedraggled man said mildly, “unless I’ve been badly misinformed.”

Beside her Ser Jerott let out a faint breath that bore more in common with a growl than a sigh. 

“And Florian,” added Ser Francis, casting his hooded eyes briefly over the man.

He was, Philippa realized, utterly drunk. The Lady Margaret was a woman of certain hospitality, and would not have forced her house guests to drink water. Whether or not the wine was watered, or delivered to a stomach primed with bread, was of course contingent on the tier of one’s lodging. There would have been no choice save a painful death from dehydration. 

“You’ve sworn an oath to Lady Margaret,” Philippa reminded him, somewhat more gently than she might have had he been sober. “To return her husband unharmed. We are to accompany you on the journey back to King’s Landing.”

“No honor for the forsworn? Please, my dear, must we deal in absolutes? It was one king.”

“Rather one too many for a knight of the Kingsguard.” Philippa removed her preemptive hand from Jerott’s arm. “Our introductions have been interrupted. I’m Philippa Somerville.”

"I’m sure once I see you in better lighting I’ll be properly charmed.”

Ser Jerott was practically quivering with anger. Stepping forward to unlock the heavy iron chains, Philippa trod carefully on his foot. She had eyes-- and he was hardly trying to hide his animosity. But the lack of advance warning made her suspicious. 

The Kingslayer did not stand when she unchained him. Instead he stared up at her, glared, almost, with that steady blue gaze of his which even clouded by drink hit like a bolt of steel. 

“You may come or you may stay,” she said, turning for the door. “It’s of no concern to me.”

She did not see the look that must have passed between him and Ser Jerott, but she did hear the dull thud, and saw the mussed blond head hit the stone wall. 

Ser Jerott was not proving a great help. 

“Ser Jerott,” she said sharply, “you mistake your role. Please follow me. The good Oathbreaker may make up his own mind, he hardly needs it damaged by you.”

“My Lady,” Ser Jerott growled, almost in her face, storming past her and through the door.

Philippa sniffed. 

“Margaret’s liquid hospitality has been put to good use,” Ser Francis observed. His eyes, bright and innocent, sparkled up at her.

“Get up," said Philippa, chucking a dry robe at him.

"Are you planning to stay and enjoy the spectacle?”

Red and shameful, the blush spread across her cheeks. "I'll be back with Ser Jerott. Clean yourself up-- we leave at dawn."

   
Philippa's mother Kate Somerville stood on a stone balcony overlooking the courtyard. She stared at the river, sparkling blue in the morning light, and the knights milling around with their Erskine insignia over the breast. Many black and white scales on a red cross, and a couple Somerville men-at-arms with their recognizable green briar-and-knife. She saw Ser Jerott Blyth's raven hair, his unsteady walk, and she saw Philippa's nutmeg head and her short, demure steps. She tried very hard not to look for that flash of gold.

The gold, as it turned out, found her. Tilting his head up and scanning the battlements, Francis Crawford met her eyes and gave a short, sharp smile. Kate returned it. It felt bittersweet on her lips, a wine she suspected she would never taste again.

Her daughter threw a comment Ser Jerott's way, and he straightened, his hand on his sword. A good man, Kate thought, in a world which did not suffer good men. She glanced again at Philippa, with her simple dress and a confident tilt to her head. A smart woman, thought Kate, somewhat ruefully, in a world which caused smart women to suffer. Her mind, all of a sudden, went to the other one. Sharp as a tack, both of them, but Kate couldn't stand a minute in the Queen's presence. That was what this world did to smart women. Either they bent or they broke, and the broken were all sharp angles and shards of glass. The Queen was a smart woman. She was not a good one.  
 

Philippa Somerville liked to consider herself a good, smart, woman, at least when on the right side of the moon. But her patience had its limits. Its limits, to be precise, were found at the bottom of one bottle, and anything past that she was inclined to make sharp comments. Three bottles in she found herself appealing to a higher power, and when divine intervention failed to intervene, to a power approximately two inches under her. For all she would have liked to keep him at arm's length, Francis Crawford did know how to criticize Ser Jerott Blyth. Sharply, with allusions to events Philippa had never heard of, and a malicious turn of the mouth she was not entirely comfortable with. 

The sun was high in the sky by the time Ser Jerott finally snapped. Ducking, Ser Francis caught the wine bag, sniffed appraisingly, and passed it to Philippa. 

“That’s a tuppenny draught,” he said, in a conversational tone of voice. “It’s nice to know your tastes in wine are as discerning as your tastes in women.”

The Kingslayer was not a heavy man, and the punch sent him flying back a good yard. He barely had time to push himself up before Ser Jerott was on him, sword ignored in favor of the common man’s weapon. Ser Francis took two punches before he lunged to the side, his face bloody, only to drive the crown of his head back into Ser Jerott’s nose. Blinking furiously, Ser Jerott grasped at the other man’s manacles and swung him around with all of his force. 

There was a sickening thud as Ser Francis hit the stone ground: this time he stayed there. Ser Jerott advanced slowly, his fists clenched, as Philippa cast about for something to do, anything to say, but there was nothing even to throw. A rock, perhaps, if the success of this mission didn’t somewhat depend on both knights emerging relatively unscathed. 

“Ser Jerott!” she yelled. He ignored her. 

As she glanced at Ser Jerott’s packs, lying discarded on the ground, a thought occurred to her. She swung her own off her shoulder and rummaged in it until she found what she was looking for. 

“A Braavosi waltz,” she pronounced, putting the fife to her lips. 

The first few notes, breathily played, caught Ser Jerott’s attention. He turned and stared at her. 

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing?”

“Trying to get your attention,” she said, tapping the fife to her other hand. “Pull yourself together, please, Ser. It’d be preferable to return him in more or less one piece.”

“You don’t know what he--”

“Would you like me to? It seems rather personal, Ser Jerott, and I’m sure you don’t want to explain your nonetheless altruistic motives to a court of strangers. Step down, please.”

In the tense silence, Philippa thought she saw the Kingslayer’s eyelids flicker. 

Ser Jerott took a step back. “As my lady commands.” A noble thought, but with his bloody knuckles the man looked less of an Arthur Dayne and more of a Ninepenny thug. 

“I know you’re awake,” she said, walking over to Ser Francis’ prone form. “Pick yourself up. We’ve got to make Maidenpool by nightfall.”

 

The crowd gathered in the inn was not large, but business was brisk enough that a very drunken ballad had started up by the time the three travellers walked in. 

“Rather off tune,” Philippa commented. 

Ser Francis closed his eyes. “For once I find don’t much care. It’s music, isn’t it?”

“Somewhat.”

His lips twitched. “You play, my lady?”

“You heard me.”

“I did, didn’t I. And would you honor us with a song?”

Caught off guard, Philippa blinked. “Would you accompany me?”

“On your lovely little fife? Any port in a storm.”

“Perhaps after a mug of ale.”

His face, already pale, whitened slightly. “I think I have had my fill of ale for all eternity thanks to the Lady Margaret. I shall risk the well water.”

“A brave venture,” remarked Philippa. 

His eyes flicked to her face. “It takes courage to kill a king.”

The words descended like a blanket of snow upon their rapport. 

_Why did he say that?_ Philippa wondered as they sat down by the heart, Ser Jerott bothering the innkeeper for bread and drinks. _Is he so cruel he must flaunt his sins to everyone he meets?_ Looking at his face, cast in shadow and so very very tired, Philippa felt that was untrue. Then why? 

“Why did you do it?” she asked suddenly. Ser Francis turned to gaze at her. “Kill Mad King James, I mean?”

“Do you know,” he said, “you are the first person who has ever asked me that?”

She didn’t say anything.

“His Royal Highness King James,” Ser Francis said slowly, “charged my younger sister with treason and made me tie her to a pike, douse her in oil, and set her on fire. Then, when she had stopped screaming and someone had put out the flames, he ordered me to untie her shriveled corpse and pull the necklace from her throat. There were ten people in that room. Do you know how many of them pleaded with the king to stop?”

“Tell me.”

“One. And her name was Kate Somerville. Nine people sat back and did nothing.”

Philippa held her reeling mind in check. “And how many of them are alive today, Ser Francis?”

The expression that overtook the knight’s face was a smile in form only. “I owe a great debt to your mother. Do you know I met you when you were twelve years old? It was barely a week after I killed him, and she took me in and gave me food and a bed. She didn’t tell you my name. You didn’t like me at all, even so.”

She did not know what to say to that, so instead of speaking she reached into her bag and pulled out her finely carved wooden fife. “Shall we play?”

“If you’ll do me the honor of taking off these manacles. I won’t attack our Florian, I promise.” 

By the time Ser Jerott returned to their table, the Kingslayer had started up a lively reel on the fife as Philippa regaled the inn with the song of a noble lady who abandoned her husband for a wandering traveler. 

They had gathered quite a crowd by the time the fife ended its last trilling note. There was a smattering of applause and a couple of catcalls directed at Philippa, which she shrugged off in the usual manner of such things. 

Someone pressed a worn harp into Ser Francis’ hands, and he passed her the fife. 

 

“I dedicated this song,” announced Ser Francis, “to the esteemed Ser Florian Blyth.”

Ser Jerott looked up at that, scowling, ostensibly in preparation.

Adjusting his grip, Ser Francis strummed a chord on the harp, low and ringing. Major. Philippa had a horrible notion she knew what he was about to play. 

Keeping her eyes fixed on his, she brought the fife to her lips and played a slow, mournful line in a distinct minor key. 

Tilting his head back slightly, Ser Francis nodded, and strummed the harp again, this time in keeping with her key, and began to sing. 

‘There once lived a lad in a land to the west  
All the arts of the staff and the sword were to him  
As praying to a septon for he was the best  
And bested all those came to beat him and win.’

Not for the first time, Philippa was grateful for the wide education her mother had provided her with. The King Without Courage was hardly a song the Kingslayer could protest. It was to all intents and purposes an olive branch. But more importantly, it was not The Bear and the Maiden Fair.  
 

They had been travelling for nearly a week when the knights tried to murder each other again. For the most part, Philippa had managed to wean Jerott from the wineskin. Sober, he could make a passing attempt at being civil.

The topic of conversation shifted to politics as they had stood when the trio set out. 

“I suppose the Queen will be opposed to a marriage with the Erskines after all this,” said Philippa. She tried, for all she could, to be respectful. 

“It’s a pity,” commented Jerott--for yes, he had become Jerott, simply Jerott, and away from the wine was hardly horrible at all-- “that Lady Marthe will be so disposed as to object. The Erskines are a good family.”

“What, are you harboring hopes your own kin will wed into the Riverlands? Don’t. The odds are a hundred to one you aren’t the father," said Francis who, even without wine, was still mostly horrible. 

Ser Jerott stopped in his tracks. “You dishonor your sister.”

“Oh, I do. It’s a wonderful pastime. Second only to watching you dishonor her.”

Even with the rumors, Philippa could not tell if it was an innuendo. She had heard the stories. Of course she had, every family had those sorts of stories. The Kingslayer had the dubious honor of being the subject of two rival stories. The versions were quite similar. They differed only in the matter of which sister it was.

By now, she had grown used to Francis' habit of furthering malicious rumors about himself. It was a sort of shell, she thought. If all people attacked him for was the false stories, he never had to take responsibility for anything he actually did.

Stiffening, Jerott turned to Francis, his dark eyes cold. “I’d rather dishonor your living sister than have fucked the dead one.”

They had a gift, the two of them, Philippa thought as she flailed her arms and shouted at them to stop and to put down their thrice-damned swords. They had a gift of finding exactly how to hurt one another. She did not know the details of their personal history, but their disintegrated friendship had the cutting tragedy of words sculpted for the stage. 

The truly tragic thing was that with the clattering of blades and Philippa’s yelling, no one heard the soldiers until it was too late.  
    

"I'm sorry," said Jerott, as the lay bound against a tree. "I shouldn't have said that."

"You shouldn't have," said Francis. There was a pause. "All the same, I may have earned it."

"Quiet, you three," a man called, and Philippa saw boots walking toward her over the grass, and saw his hand snake toward her head, gripping something wooden. After that, she didn't see anything much.

 

Later, Philippa remembered waking in the haze of a concussion and hearing Francis talking in a low voice with the leader of the men. Something about a ransom, and pearls, and an island. _That’s me_ , she thought dizzily, _the Pearl of the West, like my mother before me. Make a pair of earrings, why don’t you._

Then she heard the yelling, mostly from Ser Jerott’s voice, hoarse with use, and the shing of a blade being drawn. 

She heard Francis’ muffled cry as he was forced to the ground, but nothing else passed his lips. 

There was the whistle of steel, a thud, and silence.  
    

She woke, blearily, her hands bound, and her head resting against a tree. Beside her sat Jerott, stony-faced, his cheekbone a mottled blue. 

“What happened?” she asked him. 

His eyes flitted to her. “Don’t look,” he said. “Please.”

“I’m no weeping--”

“I know. Please. This is not just a pain of the flesh. My lady-- Philippa-- I have been on a dozen campaigns. I know death. But no one should have to see a broken man.”

She lay back. “What happened?”

“Francis will not be playing any more songs.”  
 

They were ushered into a long hall lined with old oaken chairs. By the time Philippa and Jerott arrived, Francis was already in the room, the numbness of the last few days apparently gone as he conversed fluently with the man seated at the table. 

Tall, blond, with a frank smile and trusting eyes, Ser Graham Reid Malett was upholding his reputation as a gracious host. “My deepest apologies, Ser Francis,” he was saying. “I will provide a maester. Please, if there is anything I can do to make this easier for you-- you are my honored guest.”

“Thank you, my lord. I was travelling with two companions. Would you arrange bread and board for them?”

“Ah.” Ser Graham's eyes flitted to Jerott and Philippa as they were marched up the aisle. “Your friends. Yes, they shall be well looked after. I will return them to Margaret Erskine just as soon as I arrange for you to be returned to King’s Landing.” 

This near, Philippa could see Ser Francis’ smile. It was polite, and bright, and utterly false. “My thanks,” he said. 

Unable to stop herself, Philippa glanced down at his righthand wrist. The stump was obscured by a bundle of grimy cloth. 

“You must be the Lady Philippa,” said Ser Graham, inclining his head. 

She mustered a curtsey. “My lord.” 

“I’m sure my sister would make you a room,” he said, sparing not even a glance at Jerott. “Joleta!”

She must have been quite near the doorway, for soon she stepped into the room, a slight young girl a few years younger than Philippa. Pretty, with a wholesome, sweet face and straight copper hair. 

“Please come this way,” she said. Her voice was sweet too, like sugared honey. 

“My lovely Joleta,” said Ser Graham. “The jewel of Malta. We are not from Harrenhal, you know.”

“I know,” said Philippa, and curtsied again, before following Joleta through the door into the winding hallways of the keep.  
 

“This is the issue, you see,” said Ser Graham that night over dinner. Francis was not there. He had been scurried away somewhere in the care of a maester. “I can assure Ser Francis and Ser Jerott’s passage to King’s Landing due to their connections with the crown. You, however,” he said, fixing Philippa with a commiserating smile, “have no such protection. My men will not be pleased at losing two of their captives, I could hardly take the third from them.”

The meaning of his words Philippa like a ton of bricks, and she understood Francis’ false smile. She fixed one of her own on her face and raised her eyebrows daintily. “No such protection?” she asked, tinging her voice with confusion and glancing with concern at Ser Jerott beside her. “The engagement grants none at all? I hardly think the Queen will be pleased if I am abducted by ruffians.”

Philippa was exceedingly grateful for Jerott’s perpetual stony glare. He managed to maintain his expression and continued scowling down at his potatoes. 

“Engagement?” repeated Ser Graham, his brow furrowing. “To Ser Jerott? Why, congratulations are in order, but still--”

“No,” said Philippa. “To My Lord Ser Francis. We have been engaged for two weeks now. Ever since Ser Danny Hislop became a knight of the kingsguard. The celibacy oath is annulled upon withdrawal, you know.”

“I have heard no news of this.”

“Pardon my boldness, Ser Graham, but I hardly think the lord of Harrenhal is first on my mother’s list of wedding guests.”  
   
His lips twitched. Beside him, the set of Joleta’s lips was bitter. “No, I suppose not, my lady,” Ser Graham said. His gaze found hers and she held it, her brown eyes wide and honest. “Ser Francis made no mention of this.”

“To be quite honest my lord I did not intend to myself. But if by maintaining my secrecy I allow myself to be separated from my husband I shall break my silence on the matter.”

“Well,” said Ser Graham slowly, “let me treat you to a celebration tonight. Joleta, my dear, would you fetch our esteemed guest? I know he is resting, but for this he must join us.”

“Of course.” Joleta stood, her face still twisted into a sneer. 

Philippa dared not take a sip of wine as they waited. Finally, Joleta returned, leading Ser Francis by the bandaged stump. His face was white with pain. 

Ser Graham stood. “I must congratulate you.”

It was clear Ser Francis was fighting a vicious battle just to remain standing. He blinked. “Thank you, my lord.”

“A good decision, I believe, despite what your family may wish,” continued their host. 

Francis’ eyes fixed on Philippa. Fluttering her eyelashes, she let her fingers brush her lips and then pull gently on an earring. His eyes snapped back to Ser Graham, slightly more focused. 

“My family is quite in accord,” he said easily. Philippa breathed out slightly, despite Joleta’s suspicious stare. “Of course, this,” he waved his stump, “will complicate matters slightly.”

“Not irreparably, I hope?”

“It is a diplomatic deal,” said Ser Francis. 

“And may I ask why I have not heard of it until now?”

Philippa saw the final piece click, saw Francis’ confident smile. “Any error could damage the relations between our houses. We have proceeded very carefully.”

“So carefully you travel on foot with the lady dressed as a man?”

“My lord Ser Graham,” said Francis, “do you know the dangers of travelling in a caravan? They are unfortunately multitudinous in these trying times. Safer to pose as simple men-at-arms.”

“Even with such valuable cargo?” 

An ultimatum. Francis faced it head on. “I will thank you not to refer to the future sister-in-law of the queen as cargo, Ser Graham.”

Beaten, Ser Graham smiled and acquiesced, but Philippa could see behind his eyes now. For all his niceties he would have thrown her to the wolves. A wolf, perhaps, himself.

She stared at Joleta, the way she sat, the cut of her dress, how her eyes flicked to Ser Graham with the same look they bore for Francis. 

Every house had those rumors, Philippa reflected. Only some were true.  
 

That night Philippa heard voices drifting quietly down the hall. 

“Francis.” It was Jerott. “Francis, I need you to look at me. I need you to put that down.”

Carefully, she got out of bed and padded to the door. 

“What do I have, Jerott?” Francis’ voice was a broken whimper. “Honestly, what do I have left?”

“What do you-- you bloody bastard, you have more than most of us.” From the tone of his voice he sounded close to fists. Philippa crept down the hall towards Francis’ room. 

“Jerott, I will never hold a sword again. I will never hold a pen again. I will never hold a thrice-damned bloody harp again, or a fife, or a lute, or any single fucking instrument I’m going to have to see in my rooms when I return. What the hell do I have?”

Jerott made a kind of strangled growl. “You have me.”

“Oh, and what a prize you are, my Florian.”

Pushing open the door, Philippa spoke. “You have me too.” Francis was huddled on the floor, his back to the stone wall, Jerott beside him. They turned at her voice. “You have the both of us prizes. Wonderful, aren’t we? You’re marvelously lucky.” 

Something glinted in Francis’ good left hand. She ignored it and slid down to sit on his other side. Meeting his eyes, she opened her mouth and began to sing softly.  
‘All the people did know  
That the king was a coward  
A cravenly ravenly sow  
So they championed the boy  
He who ended his reign  
And brought gaiety and piety and joy.”

A twisted smile found its way to Francis’ lips. “I hardly think I’m the people’s chosen  
champion.”

“Of course you’re not,” said Ser Jerott. “Who fucking cares?”

Philippa put her hand on his shoulder. “Do you? Because I don’t.”  
 

They left Harrenhal, traveling on back roads as quickly as they could. 

“I’m sorry, Francis,” said Philippa at length. “For the marriage. It was all I could think of.” 

He rode beside her, single-handed, with a pain at the corners of his eyes that spoke of another headache. “You have nothing to apologise for.”

“I think I do. I’ve rather stolen your future.”

“I would not have wanted to return to the Kingsguard.” 

“That’s not what I meant. Well, I did. But also not.”

“Concision, my dear Philippa. It is a worthy tool.” 

She glanced over at him. He was smiling, slightly, and she found herself smiling in return. 

“But in all seriousness,” he said, “the one you should apologize to is your mother.”

“Sorry? What do you-- oh. Oh. You mean-- I-- oh, good gods.”

“It would not have happened,” he said. “I love your mother, but I love her like a sister.”

A moment of silence. 

“In recollection of our lovely hosts,” Francis amended, “that was perhaps not the best analogy.”

“Like a companion in arms?” Philippa proposed, glancing at Jerott. 

“Let us venture no further into this dangerous realm,” said Francis, but he was smiling again. 

“And me?” Philippa asked. “How do you love me?”

“Do you know I haven’t the faintest idea?” said Francis. “But in light of this opportunity I love you as a friend and from there on let us find out together.”

   

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to:  
> 1) Languish-locked-in-L's great prompt. So much fun to write.  
> 2) Cat-wolfe for all her help. What a godsend. Mille grazie.


End file.
